A Lifetime of Chips
by cactusnell
Summary: Molly wants Sherlock. Sherlock wants Molly. How could he possibly screw this up? Sherlolly


When Dr. Molly Hooper first felt the arm snake around her waist as she lay in her bed in the middle of a sound night's sleep, two thoughts occurred to her. Either she was about to become the victim of a horrendous crime. Or she was, indeed, still asleep, and this was about to become a very interesting dream. When she recognized the long fingers on the large hand that rested on her stomach, and the voice that said "Molly? Are you now awake?", she realized that she couldn't possibly be - awake, that is. She was definitely dreaming! However, she was soon disabused of this notion when she rolled over to come face to face with an almost naked Sherlock Holmes in her bed.

"Sherlock, what are you…", she started to speak, but was silenced by his mouth covering hers. Sherlock rolled her over slightly, until he was practically on top of her, one hand moving to her hip, the other arm supporting his weight as he moved his lips down to her neck.

"Really, Sherlock, what the bloody hell…" Again she was silenced, and in the same fashion. Molly felt herself weakening, felt herself losing all sense of anything, well, sensible. But before she let that happen, she had to know why. So she gathered what strength she had left, shoved both her hands into his chest, and gave a forceful shove. "Why, Sherlock? Why now?"

Sherlock Holmes lay back on her bed, and looked at her, but couldn't quite bring himself to meet her eyes. "I thought this was what you wanted, Molly. You've done so much for me, I'm just trying to do something for you." And with those words, Molly's spirits were crushed.

"You really are a bastard, aren't you, Sherlock Holmes?"

'Molly, really, questioning my parentage has nothing to do with…"

"Stop joking, you prick! This is not what I want! This is not what I need! How could you?!"

"Molly, my apologies, but I thought that you would like this. As you know, sentiment is…"

"...not your area. I know that, you arse! You've used that excuse for rude and uncaring behavior for as long as I've known you. And heaven knows you've bumped and bruised my heart for years now, Sherlock. But you've haven't broken it yet. But this may just about do it. I don't need you throwing me a bone…"

Sherlock smirked at the unintentional double entendre while Molly blushed furiously.

"...so to speak, and then disappearing in the morning, if you even hang around that long, never to repeat the experience. If you want to repay me, buy me a dinner, or at least a coffee. Clean up the lab after you're finished for a change! Return the borrowed lab supplies!" Molly was now building up a full head of steam. "But no, knowing how I feel about you, how I have always felt about you, you come in here and try to give me a pity shag, for god's sake!" She now looked him squarely in the eye. "Get out! And if you ever pick my lock again, I'll call the police and press charges!"

"Molly, I…"

"Get out! Now!" And Molly turned her back as the detective slid out of her bed, gathered up his clothes, and quietly left.

Well, Molly thought, I guess that just about kills any chance for a good night's sleep! After hearing her front door close behind the insulting detective, Molly rose from her bed, padded into her kitchen, and put the kettle on. She knew that a pot of tea was not really going to help, but it couldn't hurt. She had just thrown the love of her life out of her bed! The old Molly would never have done such a thing. She would have settled for a night of pleasure and a lifetime of tear-inducing memories. But it seems that the newer version had more self-respect than to condemn herself to such a life. _God,_ she thought, _I miss the old Molly!_ She sat in her kitchen, sipping the tea which had gone from hot to cold, and musing about the night's developments. Not long after dawn she had decided that talking to someone, an impartial observer, was her best option to maintain her sanity. Picking up her mobile, she texted Mary Watson.

I KICKED SHERLOCK OUT OF BED LAST NIGHT - MOLLY

HOW SOON CAN YOU GET HERE? - MARY

Sherlock Holmes was not at all surprised to receive a visit from his best friend John Watson at their formerly shared flat later that afternoon. He had deduced that Molly, in her anger, would need to talk to someone, and that that someone would, in all likelihood be her best friend, Mary Watson. Mary would, of course, berate her husband about the behavior of his best friend, making this visit inevitable.

"What the bloody hell have you done now, Sherlock?"

"You obviously know what I have done, John, hence your visit."

"I'd like to hear your version of events, mate, although I must say, from past experiences, that your version of events involving human interactions which involve sentiment, or should involve sentiment, leave much to be desired."

"Sentiment is …"

"...not your area! Got it, Sherlock. Let me ask you. Did you, or did you not, offer Molly Hooper, who has loved you for god only knows how long, a one-off roll in the hay…"

"There was no hay involved, John."

"Shut up! Did you offer her a one-off pity shag as a payback for all she's done for you?"

"One-off? Why do you assume that, John?"

"Maybe because that's what Molly assumed. What did you say to her Sherlock? Exactly?"

"I climbed into bed with her, started to seduce her, assuming she would be much more amenable than she was. When she objected, somewhat strenuously, I merely pointed out that, as she had always wanted me, I felt that I should, obviously, provide her with that which she had always desired, as a small repayment for all…"

"You really are an idiot!"

"How so? Are you saying she no longer wants me? Have I missed something?" Sherlock looked a bit confused.

"Okay, let's try an analogy. Say you're hungry…"

"How hungry?"

"Really hungry! In fact, for this analogy to work, you have to be starving. At death's door, in fact. And someone comes along and offers you a fairy cake…"

"I don't particularly care for sweets. Are you confusing me with Mycroft. Because Mycroft would…"

"Okay, okay! Chips. Someone offers you chips. And you love chips. More than anything in the world…"

"I'd eat the chips, of course. I don't know where this is going…"

"But the chips are poison, Sherlock. And you know the chips are laced with poison. A slow poison. Do you eat the chips, knowing that they will save you from immediate death due to starvation, but cause you to suffer and die at a later date? Or do you toss the chips out of bed, and wait for another offer?"

"That makes no sense at all, John! Why would I poison her chips? Why would I let her starve, to begin with? I'd give her all the chips she wanted…"

"Sherlock, now I'm getting confused. Exactly what was your intention last night? You know what Molly wants. Are you really saying you want the same?"

"Molly wants me. I want Molly. Really, John, how complicated can it be?"

"Did you tell Molly you want her, or did you just emphasize the fact that you know how much she wants you?"

"I didn't get very far before she threw me out, John. Perhaps I should have led with my feelings on the subject."

"Feelings, Sherlock?"

"Yes, John. Let's not overreact. I do have feelings. I feel hunger. I feel pain. I feel boredom, as I do now with this conversation. Sometimes, I don't deal with them very well. I have learned that shooting a smiley face into the wall is not the proper way to deal with boredom."

"And?"

"And I'm trying to figure out a way to deal with my feelings for Molly." Sherlock now had the good sense to look stricken. "You don't think I've lost any chance, do you, John?"

"Well, if it's any consolation, she did tell Mary that kicking you out was the hardest thing she's ever done. Evidently you're a very good kisser. And she said she could tell that you were certainly no virgin, or gay …"

"I never said I was, John! Either one. That's down to you and Mrs. Hudson!"

"So what are you going to do?"

"I intend to follow Molly's own suggestions. I'll clean up after myself, return borrowed lab supplies, buy her coffee, take her to dinner…"

"That's quite an agenda, mate!"

"We have time."

John now looked a little sheepish, as he told Sherlock, "You know, she has a date with some guy on Saturday, right?"

Sherlock barely showed any reaction, but was shaking inside. "Go away, John. I have to think now!" John looked on as the detective steepled his fingers under his chin and retreated to his mind palace, then he slowly walked to the door, leaving his friend lost in thought.

Sherlock had decided that his best course of action was to apologize sincerely, and let actions speak louder than words. Molly had accepted his apology with grace, and seemed appreciative of his efforts to keep her lab space tidy. She thanked him profusely for returned lab equipment, and smiled sincerely when he bought her coffee. They had almost re-established their comfortable rapport, when he brought up her date for the following evening.

"So, Molly, I understand you have a date tomorrow night. Anyone I know?"

Molly answered cautiously, "I don't think so, Sherlock." She wasn't really comfortable discussing her social calendar with the detective, especially considering what had happened between them.

"Tell me about him."

"Why do you want to know, Sherlock?"

"Molly, I hope you still consider us friends. I hope that me aberrant behavior hasn't cost me that. I only ask because I am concerned about you. I want you to be happy."

"His name is David. He's a banker, and a very nice man. I really don't know him that well, but isn't that the point of dating, after all?"

Against all his better judgement, and in spite of the voice of John Watson saying in his head, "Don't do it, you git!", Sherlock found himself saying, "And do you intend to sleep with this David?"

Molly Hooper stiffened. "That's none of your concern, Sherlock. And you ought to know, from personal experience, that I am particular about whom I sleep with. And I never sleep with anyone on the first date!" The pathologist saw her words hit home, as a small sigh escaped from Sherlock when his ego deflated just the tiniest little bit. So she decided to add a bit of humor, just to ease the tension, "Unless, of course, he looks like Benedict Cumberbatch. If that's the case, all bets are off!"

"Who the hell is this Ben Cumbersomething?"

"Sherlock, it never ceases to amaze me that you can identify 240 different kinds of tobacco ash…"

"243, actually. And I have been working on more…"

"And not know the least thing about pop culture. Or the bloody solar system!"

"Let's not go there again, for god's sake. I don't need to know the earth revolves around the sun…"

"Because you like to assume it revolves around you!" Molly finished his sentence with a laugh, and Sherlock had to smile along with her. He soon took his leave, going off to investigate this Cumber-person, and to make sure Molly's date looked nothing like him.

The following Monday found Sherlock Holmes sharing lunch with John Watson in the cafeteria at St. Bart's after John had completed his morning rounds.

"So, John, how did it go?"

"How did what go, Sherlock? The boil lancing in room 324? The infected toe from the homeless clinic? How about…"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, John! Molly!"

"What makes you think I know anything?"

"Molly talks to Mary. And if Mary knows, you know. So, tell me!"

"I know you don't want to hear this, but it went well. She likes him, Sherlock. A lot. Evidently, he was the perfect gentleman."

"He doesn't look like Benedict Cumbersomething, does he?"

"Yes, well, who is that guy, anyway, and why did I have to give my wife a hall pass for him?"

"Hall pass? What does that mean?"

"Nevermind. I know what you're concerned about, so I'll jump right to the chase. All she did was kiss him good-night. Nothing else."

For a brief moment, Sherlock looked relieved. Then he asked, "Did she say if she liked it? Did she think he was better than me?"

"Sherlock, if you think for one minute that I would subject myself to a conversation about the comparative kissing abilities of my best friend and a complete stranger, you are sorely mistaken!"

"What kind of a friend are you/"

"I thought I had made that abundantly clear, you prat! The kind of friend who has no desire to know, even second hand, just how well you kiss! End of conversation, Sherlock!"

Sherlock scowled as John added, "But he couldn't have been half bad. She's seeing him again on Friday." Sherlock did not say another word until he muttered a farewell as John left the table to return to work.

Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, now made it his top priority to find out all he could about Dr. Molly Hooper's suitor. He was, after all, just looking after her, he told himself. This was not new territory. He had done this before, with varying degrees of success. Most of her prospects had been easily dealt with, as they were certainly not worthy to associate with his pathologist, at least not in his opinion. There was the small matter of the criminally inclined psychopath who had snuck in under the radar, but he was a genius almost of Sherlock's caliber. And, besides, he wasn't really interested in Molly, just the detective himself. A couple had slipped through the net and found themselves in her bed, but Molly's own good judgement had made brief work of them. And, Sherlock reasoned, he couldn't really be blamed for Tom, also known as "meat dagger", as he had been away for two years, leaving her alone and vulnerable. On second thought, maybe he could be blamed, simply for leaving her alone and vulnerable, a mistake he was not going to make again.

David Blakeston was a remarkably respectable, remarkably attractive, and remarkably successful man. The more Sherlock investigated, the more he despised him. He would have been perfect for Molly had it not been for one thing. He was not Sherlock Holmes. The son of a bitch contributed to a number of charities, did volunteer work at a children's center, and worked out at a gym to maintain his not unimpressive physique Sherlock had to dig deeper. Unfortunately, that bastard David treated his mother well, was close to his sisters, and voted in every election, taking his civic responsibility very seriously. Was there no end to his perfection! On top of all this, he evidently was a more than passable kisser. Sherlock was not about to let his Molly explore any other talents that might be lurking under David's damn near perfect exterior. He had to dig deeper still. And then he found it. A mere glimmer of hope. The remarkable David had been diagnosed, quite recently, with a rather common phobia. Sherlock should, perhaps, have felt some guilt about hacking into the man's medical records, but he was beyond desperate at this point.

David Blakeston, pillar of the community and almost certainly one of the most eligible bachelors in his social milieu, had just recently run afoul of the R.S.P.C.A., having been spotted by one of his neighbors abusing a small animal. He had fought the charge in court, citing a psychological condition, a phobia. But this phobia went beyond the usual fear of the animal in question, and into the darker area of hatred and loathing. Being the good man that he was, he had, of course, sought therapy for his condition. But said therapy was considered only partially successful by his therapist, and it was determined that David should never be allowed to be in the company of the small animal which inspired his sense of fear and loathing. David Blakeston, it seemed, suffered from an extreme case of ailurophobia, fear and loathing of cats! And it seemed that poor old David had not yet realized that Molly Hooper was definitely a cat person.

Sherlock now considered his options. Due to Molly's later shift at St. Bart's on Friday, it seemed logical that David would either pick her up there, or that they would meet at the restaurant he had chosen for dinner. Toby, Molly's beloved tabby was safe at least until after dinner. Sherlock briefly considered visiting a shelter and making off with clowder of cats to surreptitiously deposit in Molly's flat, but remembering her threat to have him arrested if he picked her lock one more time, thought better of the plan. And, of course, he knew Toby. Fat, lazy Toby, with the nasty attitude toward anyone but his mistress, and the scar over one eye from one battle too many. If any feline in the world could inspire fear and loathing, it was Toby. Perhaps that was why Sherlock was so fond of him. Psychologically speaking, at least, they were well matched.

And so, late on Friday evening, Sherlock Holmes stood across the street from Molly Hooper's building, waiting for what he hoped was the tragic end of her latest relationship. He hated himself for a brief moment, knowing that he was counting on her disappointment to feed his hopes, but consoled himself with the thought that he had every intention of making things better, if only she would let him. He ducked further back in the shadows as a cab pulled up in front of the building, and the laughing couple exited. David held Molly's hand as they climbed the steps to the door, and Sherlock found himself wishing desperately that Toby got a few good licks in before the, hopefully inevitable, altercation ended. He gave them just enough time to reach her flat before he crossed the street and entered her building. Sherlock had barely made halfway up the flight of stairs leading to Molly's flat when the commotion started. Shouts from David. Hisses and howls from Toby. He looked up to see the door open and an orange ball of fur run out and down the stairs. Surprisingly the terrified animal ran straight into his arms. This was working out better than he had expected. But now he became a bit confused. If the cat was in his arms, where was all the hissing and howling coming from?

Sherlock continued up the stairs to peek in Molly's door, maintaining a firm grip on the terrified tabby. He was determined that his curiosity was not going to kill this cat! When he looked in, it was to find David Blakeston, his nemesis, hopping up and down on one foot, clutching a bleeding shin and howling obscenities. Molly Hooper, kindest of souls and firm adherent to the Hippocratic oath, would normally have been tending to his wound, but instead was almost hissing words of rage as the hopping banker. Sherlock leaned against the doorway as the banker bounced by, shoved ungently by an very angry pathologist. The cat looked almost as happy as the detective.

"I rescued your cat," Sherlock said hesitantly after Molly had thrown David's coat down the stairway to land on his head, obstructing his vision, and causing him to hit his already injured shin on the front door as he left.

Molly took the trembling animal into her arms. Toby immediately starting to purr, and Sherlock could almost swear that he noticed a conspiratorial look in the cat's yellow eyes. "Would you like some coffee, Sherlock? I was going to offer some to David, but as you can see, he had to leave rather unexpectedly."

"He did seem to be in quite the hurry, Molly. Whatever did you do to him?" He had barely managed to deliver this last line before they both collapsed into laughter. Toby, however, was not so easily amused, letting out a disgruntled howl as he leapt from her arms.

"I'm not even going to ask, Sherlock," Molly said with a sigh as she set about preparing the coffee.

"Ask what?"

"How you knew about my date? How you knew about David? How my cat wound up in your arms?"

"Best not ask, then. I might come off a bit stalkerish. Except for the cat thing. That was just Toby's good taste."

"Alright, that covers the 'hows'. How about we move on to they 'whys', Sherlock?"

"Ah, difficult question. A question which you really shouldn't have had to ask if I hadn't botched up my last visit to your flat so spectacularly…"

"You mean when I threw you out of bed?"

Sherlock winced at the memory, "Yes, well, I hadn't really expected that."

"Yes, I could tell that…"

"I perhaps should not have started out by saying how much I knew how much you wanted me, but how much I wanted you. Although, I still cannot understand how you came to believe that I intended it to be a one-off…"

"Sherlock, you led me to believe that you were simply doing me a favor…"

"But a one-off, Molly? Certainly not! You can have all the chips you want! I'll be happy to provide you with chips for the rest of your life…"

"Chips?! What the hell are you talking about? What chips?"

"I warned you I'm not good at this. John said I should give you chips. Actually, he said a fairy cake, but I don't like fairy cakes. Mycroft…"

"Sherlock, are we talking about sex, or a diet plan?"

"Sex, of course! Why would either of us need a diet plan? Although, I must concede that we're not getting any younger. Are you concerned about what they call 'middle age spread', Molly? Because if you are, I can assure you that I will love you no matter what…"

"Love me, Sherlock?"

"Of course. What else are we talking about! Do try to keep up, Molly. This is difficult enough for me without you becoming distracted by food issues!"

"Sherlock, I've read John's blog. I know your quote about sentiment being a chemical defect found on the losing side. So what's going on…"

"I'm trying to tell you, I guess, that this is me, losing." Sherlock let out a heavy sigh just as Molly wrapped her arms around his waist, and lay her head on his chest. "Although, I must say, this doesn't feel like much of a loss at the moment."

"That's because I'm such a magnanimous winner, Sherlock." And she looked up at him just as he lowered his lips to hers, closing the distance between them quickly. When they broke for air, Molly laughed and said, "Maybe we should call this a draw!"

"

l


End file.
